CHAPTER 15
The rink is cold, but it feels like nothing compared to the chill still hanging between Hayes and me after the fight.
Coach Rivera’s lecture rings in my ears—something about leadership, responsibility, and setting a better example.
But all I can think about is Hayes, standing a few feet away on the ice, his expression as unreadable as ever.
The scrimmage is supposed to help us “cool off.” That’s what Coach said, anyway. Get the tension out, focus on the game. As if that’s possible when Hayes is still smirking like he got away with something. The whistle blows, and we’re off.
It doesn’t take long for the competitive edge to kick in.
I push off hard, feeling the burn in my legs as I take off across the ice.
The familiar sound of skates cutting into the frozen surface fills the rink, but it’s not just any game today.
This is personal. Every time Hayes’ team gets the puck, I’m there—chasing, blocking, knocking them down if I have to.
My lungs burn, and my muscles are tight, but the adrenaline keeps me going.
Hayes is on the move, fast as always, weaving through the defense like it’s nothing.
I see him coming from the corner of my eye, and my body reacts before my brain can catch up.
I skate harder, angling toward him just as the puck lands on his stick.
He doesn’t hesitate, driving forward with that stupid confidence of his.
For a split second, our eyes meet—just long enough for me to know he’s going to try something slick.
Not today.
I cut across the ice and slam into him, shoulder first, my body making solid contact with his. It’s a hard hit, sending both of us off balance, but I don’t care. I’ve been waiting for this all scrimmage. Hayes stumbles, but he doesn’t fall. He’s too steady for that, and it only pisses me off more.
“Watch yourself, Miller,” Hayes mutters under his breath, his voice low and mocking as he recovers.
I glare at him, teeth clenched, but before I can respond, the puck skids loose, and Zach is there to snatch it up. I back off, refocusing on the play as Zach charges down the ice toward the goal. For a second, I forget about Hayes and just move, my body reacting to the rhythm of the game.
Zach makes the pass, and the puck lands on my stick like it’s magnetized. I take off, my heart pounding, breath fogging the air as I speed down the ice. I can feel the defense closing in, but my eyes are locked on the goal, the goalie’s stance, the angle I need to hit.
But then—just as I’m about to shoot—Hayes comes out of nowhere, his stick cutting across mine, sending the puck flying out of reach.
“Dammit!” I snap, turning sharply to follow the play. My frustration boils over as Hayes glides past me with that cocky smirk on his face.
“Gotta be quicker than that,” he says, loud enough for me to hear but quiet enough for the rest of the team to miss.
I bite back a retort, fuming as I skate after him. He grabs the puck and takes off toward the opposite side of the rink. My pulse races, and I push harder, desperate to catch him, to make him pay for getting the best of me again.
Hayes is fast, I’ll give him that, but I’m fueled by pure rage at this point. I close the distance, skating like the ice might crack beneath me at any moment. Just as he crosses center ice, I lunge forward, my stick aimed right at his.
I knock the puck loose, and Hayes stumbles. He catches himself, of course, but not before I snag the puck and spin away. The guys on my team shout encouragement, but all I hear is the blood rushing in my ears.
I’m so focused on making the shot, I don’t even realize Hayes is coming up behind me again until it’s too late. His shoulder connects with mine, hard, sending me sprawling across the ice. I hit the boards with a thud, my breath knocked out of me for a second.
“Too slow,” he says, skating past, his voice dripping with that same infuriating smugness.
I lie there for a moment, my chest heaving, staring up at the rink’s ceiling. My body aches, but that’s not what hurts the most. It’s him. Always him. Always finding a way to get under my skin, to remind me that no matter how hard I try, he’s still one step ahead.
I grit my teeth and push myself up, shaking off the sting in my side. The game’s still going, but I can’t focus. My eyes lock onto Hayes as he circles back toward the play, effortlessly controlling the puck as if it’s an extension of himself.
I skate back into position, forcing myself to stay calm, to focus on the game, but the anger’s still there, boiling beneath the surface.
Every time I see him with the puck, every time I hear his stupid comments, it just makes me want to knock him down again.
Harder this time. Make him feel what I’m feeling.
The scrimmage drags on, and by the time Coach blows the final whistle, I’m drenched in sweat and shaking with frustration. Hayes skates off with that same unbothered look on his face, like he’s won something.
“Alright, boys,” Coach Rivera shouts, gathering us at the center of the ice. “Decent hustle, but we need to clean up those turnovers. And keep your heads in the game. No more fighting. We play as a team or not at all.”
He doesn’t look directly at me or Hayes, but I know the message is for us.
“As y’all know our home game is less than two weeks from now.
Which means double practice and working harder than we normally do.
St. Laurence has a tough team but nothing compared to us.
So I expect everyone to do better and no feud amongst us.
Always remember, the goal is to win together as a team and work together because in the end, we belong to one team. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Coach!” We chorus.
“Good. Go home, freshen up, and I’ll see all of you tomorrow.”
Hayes glances at me out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t say anything this time. He doesn’t need to. His silence is enough to tell me that, despite the truce we called at Coach’s office, nothing’s really changed.
As we skate off the ice, Zach gives me a slap on the back, grinning. “You played hard, Miller. Just gotta land those hits a little better next time.”
I nod, but my mind’s already somewhere else. Somewhere colder than the ice beneath my feet.
“Nice tats you’ve got,” Lance says as I step out of the shower half-dressed, the door closing behind me.
“Thanks,” I mutter, not in the mood for conversation as I walk past him toward my locker.
The locker room is almost empty—just me, Lance, Ezra, Finn, Zach, and Hayes, who’s still in the shower.
This is only the second time I’ve showered here since joining the team.
Most days, I avoid the locker room altogether—either I go straight home or wait until everyone clears out.
No one’s seen me shirtless before. No one’s seen the ink.
“Your parents let you get those?” Finn asks, breaking off whatever quiet conversation he was having with Ezra. His eyes drag over the tattoos on my skin.
I don’t bother answering right away as I open my locker.
“No.”
That’s all he gets.
Finn’s one of Hayes’s people. That automatically puts him on my shit list.
I grab a black T-shirt and sit on the bench, pulling it over my head. The fabric drags across my skin as I reach down for my sneakers.
“You good?” Zach asks, settling beside me with that easy smile of his. His blonde hair is loose, falling down his neck, brushing his shoulders. He looks like a pretty girl. Too pretty.
“Yeah,” I say, flashing him a small, polite smile as I slip my foot into my shoe.
“What’s your deal?”
The voice makes my jaw tighten.
I look up slowly.
Ezra fucking King.
We’ve barely spoken since I joined the team. We skate together, pass the puck, pretend the past doesn’t exist. Him being Hayes’s loyal lapdog doesn’t suddenly make him tolerable.
“You talking to me?” I ask, fingers pausing on my laces as I sit up straighter.
Ezra scoffs. “Ever since you got back, you’ve been acting like you own the damn school. Throwing looks. Starting shit. Picking fights with Hayes. You got a problem with us or something?”
I let out a short laugh, slow and humorless. “And here I thought you’d grown up.” I tilt my head. “Guess not. Still Griffin’s bitch.”
The words land.
Ezra’s mouth tightens. He bites his lip, anger flashing across his face as he takes a step toward me. “What the fuck is your problem, man?”
“Hey—cool it, Ezra.” Lance steps in, placing himself just close enough to intervene if this goes sideways.
I don’t need the help. I can handle Ezra just fine.
“Stay out of it, Lance,” Ezra snaps. “I’m sick of Dakota’s shit.”
“If you know what’s good for you,” I say quietly, every word sharp, deliberate, “you’ll stay out of my business.”
Ezra’s eyes harden. “Or what?”
I rise slowly to my feet, the anger from earlier clawing its way back up my spine, my blood beginning to boil. I stare down at Ezra, and he glares right back at me, jaw tight. My gaze drops to his clenched fist and I scoff, an irritating smile tugging at my lips.
“Back off, Ezra.”
The voice is thick, commanding—cutting straight through the tension.
Hayes appears at Ezra’s side, one hand pressing firmly against his chest as he pushes him back. “Back off,” he repeats, his glare sharp and final.
I scoff, already prepared to tell Hayes to stay the hell out of my business—
Then I really see him.
Hayes stands there half-naked, a towel hanging low on his hips, water still dripping from his body. His sculpted torso gleams under the locker room lights, droplets sliding down his chest, over his defined abs, tracing the sharp V of his hips before disappearing beneath the towel.
Fuck.
I wasn’t prepared for this. For him.
His skin is pale and flushed, his dark hair damp and pushed back, strands clinging to his forehead. I force myself not to stare, not to let my eyes linger the way they desperately want to. Instead, I mask the sudden surge of heat with irritation, scoffing like I’m unimpressed.
I glare at him—but he doesn’t glare back.
There’s something in his eyes. Something unreadable. Gone before I can make sense of it.
“I don’t need you coming to my rescue, Griffin,” I snap, dropping back onto the bench and shoving my other foot into my sneaker. My fingers fumble with the laces as I tie them too tight, too fast. “Mind your fucking business.”
Hayes says nothing.
That alone throws me.
He only shoots Ezra a warning look before turning away, heading for his locker to get dressed. I don’t bother fixing my shoes properly. I grab my sports bag and storm out of the locker room, my skin prickling as I feel his gaze burning into my back.
By the time I reach my car, my chest is tight. I toss my bag onto the backseat and drop into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut. I lean back, eyes squeezing closed, trying to breathe.
“Fuck!” I shout, punching the steering wheel once. Then again.
“Fuck,” I whisper, the anger finally cracking as I drag in a shaky breath.
How did I get here?
Caught between hatred and want, tangled up in a boy I was never supposed to fall for—someone I should despise, yet can’t get out of my head no matter how hard I try.
How the fuck did I get here?